Page 3 of Big and Rowdy (Big Boys Love Curves #1)

three

Savannah

Saturday morning dawns clear and crisp, the kind of late autumn day that makes the wilderness look like it's been painted in gold and crimson.

I've spent more time than I care to admit choosing my outfit—hiking boots and jeans, practical but flattering with my favorite sweater just in case we get another November snowfall.

Weather is unpredictable this far north.

Boone arrives at my campsite exactly on time, which surprises me.

I'd half-expected mountain time to be a flexible concept.

But there he is at nine sharp, looking unfairly good in worn jeans and a thermal top that clings to his broad chest, emphasizing his massive frame.

Standing at his full height, he towers over me, making me tilt my head back to meet his eyes.

"Morning, beautiful," he says, swinging off his four-wheeler with fluid grace. "Ready for the grand tour?"

"Ready as I'll ever be." I grab my daypack, already loaded with water and snacks. "Please tell me you're not planning to break any land speed records today."

"Scout's honor. Nice and easy." He holds up three fingers, grinning. "Though I should mention I was kicked out of Scouts for refusing to follow the buddy system."

"Of course you were." But I'm smiling as I say it.

The four-wheeler is even more impressive up close. Boone shows me where to hold on, his hands briefly covering mine as he guides them to the right grips. The contact sends electricity shooting through me.

"Trust me?" he asks, and something in his voice makes me look up to meet his eyes.

"We'll see," I say, but I'm already climbing on behind him.

The first few minutes are admittedly terrifying.

The machine is powerful and loud, and the trails we take seem barely wide enough for a mountain goat, let alone a vehicle.

But Boone knows what he's doing, taking curves with confidence and navigating obstacles like he's memorized every root and rock.

And gradually, I begin to relax. The speed that seemed reckless starts to feel exhilarating. The rush of air, the blur of trees, the way the four-wheeler seems to dance through the terrain—it's like flying, if flying involves the very real possibility of hitting a tree.

The trail gets bumpier and I cling to him, wrapping my arms around his thick waist like Jasmine when Aladdin takes her for the first carpet ride.

Our first stop is a clearing that opens onto a vista that quite literally takes my breath away. Mountains roll away into the distance, layer upon layer of ridges painted in every shade of autumn. A hawk circles lazily overhead, riding the thermals.

"Oh my God," I breathe, climbing off the four-wheeler on unsteady legs. "This is incredible."

Boone watches my reaction with obvious satisfaction. "Most folks never make it up here. Too far off the beaten path."

I walk to the edge of the clearing, pulling out my phone to capture the view, though I know no camera could do it justice.

"You're not going to post this on social media, are you?" he asks, and there's an edge to his voice that wasn't there before.

I look back at him in surprise. "Why would you care?"

"Because places like this..." He gestures at the vista. "They're special because they're not overrun with people looking for the perfect Instagram shot. Once something goes viral, it's ruined."

I study his face, seeing genuine concern there. "I wouldn't do that. These kinds of places should stay special."

The tension leaves his shoulders. "Good. Sorry, it's just—I've seen it happen too many times. Secret swimming holes turned into party spots, quiet trails that become highways."

"You really love these mountains, don't you?"

"Born and raised here. Can't imagine being anywhere else." He moves to stand beside me, close enough that I can smell his cologne—something woodsy and clean. "My great-grandfather homesteaded the land where I live now. Carved it out of the wilderness with nothing but determination and a good axe."

There's pride in his voice, but also something deeper. A connection to a place that I, for all my love of travel and adventure, have never quite experienced.

"That must be nice," I say softly. "Having roots that deep."

"It has its advantages." He glances at me sideways. "What about you? Where's home when you're not camping in the middle of nowhere?"

"Wherever I park for the night, I guess. I travel a lot for work, pick up short-term rentals. Haven't had a real permanent address in about two years."

"Sounds lonely."

I bristle automatically. "Sounds like freedom."

"Didn't say it was bad. Just said it sounds lonely." His voice is gentle, without judgment. "There's a difference between being alone and being lonely."

I want to argue, to insist that I love my independence and wouldn't trade it for anything. But standing there in that perfect clearing, with this man who seems to understand the appeal of wild places, I feel the truth of his words settle somewhere deep in my chest.

We visit two more stops that morning—a waterfall that tumbles down smooth granite faces into a pool so clear I can see the bottom, and a meadow where deer graze without fear, apparently accustomed to the sound of Boone's four-wheeler.

As we ride past what looks like an old trapper's cabin, Boone points it out. "That's Miner's Rest—named after the gold prospector who built it back in the 1890s. Local legend says he hid his fortune somewhere in these mountains, but no one's ever found it."

"Maybe the real treasure was the view," I suggest, looking out over the valley below.

Boone's laugh is warm and rich. "You sound like a greeting card, but you're probably right."

We pass several other landmarks, including a particularly treacherous bend in the trail that Boone navigates with practiced ease.

At each stop, I find myself relaxing more, laughing more easily at his jokes and asking questions about the history and wildlife of the area.

Boone, for his part, seems to shed layers of that initial cockiness, revealing someone who's genuinely knowledgeable about the wilderness and passionate about preserving it.

"You hungry?" he asks as we head back down the mountain in the early afternoon. "I know a place that makes the best barbecue you've ever had."

My stomach chooses that moment to growl audibly. "I guess that answers that question."

The restaurant turns out to be a roadside shack that looks like it might blow over in a strong chinook, but the smell wafting from the kitchen is absolutely divine. We sit at a picnic table on the covered porch, sharing a platter of pulled pork and ribs that's easily enough food for four people.

"This is amazing," I say around a bite of cornbread that's probably adding years to my life and taking them off at the same time.

"May's been perfecting that recipe for thirty years. She won't give it up, even to family." Boone wipes barbecue sauce from his fingers with a paper napkin. "I've been trying to sweet-talk it out of her since I was sixteen."

"And May is immune to your charms?"

"Apparently. Though she did give me extra cornbread when I brought my prom date here, so maybe she's not completely heartless."

I feel an unexpected pang at the mention of other women. Which is ridiculous, since I've known the man for exactly four days and have no claim on him whatsoever.

"Local girl?" I ask, aiming for casualness.

"Sheriff Thompson's daughter. Seemed like a good idea at the time." His grin is rueful. "Turned out we wanted very different things out of life. She's married to a lawyer in Calgary now, has two kids and a white picket fence."

"And you're still here, riding four-wheelers through the mountains."

"Yep." He meets my eyes across the table. "Some of us know where we belong."

We finish our meal in comfortable conversation, and Boone insists on paying despite my protests. As we walk back to his four-wheeler, I find myself reluctant for the day to end.

"Thank you," I say as we reach the machine. "For the tour, and the rescue yesterday, and lunch. This has been..."

"Nice?" he suggests, stepping closer.

"Unexpected," I finish, very aware of how close he's standing, close enough that I have to tilt my head back to meet his eyes.

"Good unexpected or bad unexpected?"

My heart is beating fast now, and I can see my own anticipation reflected in his dark eyes. "Good," I whisper.

For a moment, I think he might kiss me right there in the restaurant parking lot. But instead, he reaches up and tucks a strand of hair behind my ear, his touch gentle and brief.

"I'd like to see you again," he says simply.

"I'd like that too."

"Tomorrow night? Nothing fancy, just dinner at my place. I make a mean chili, and the view from my porch is almost as good as the one I showed you today."

I know I should probably say no. I'm only planning to stay in the area for another week, and getting involved with a local is exactly the kind of complication I usually avoid. But looking into Boone's hopeful face, I find my usual caution deserting me.

"Okay," I say. "What time?"

"Six? I'll text you directions."

As we exchange phone numbers, I try to ignore the voice in my head that's asking what exactly I think I'm doing. I'm supposed to be enjoying a peaceful solo retreat, not getting tangled up with mountain men who ride four-wheelers and make me forget why I've sworn off dating.

But as Boone fires up his machine and gives me one last grin before roaring off, I have to admit that maybe, some complications are worth it.